If Shakespeare
Shakespeare’s sister took the stones from her pockets and climbed out of the river. She wrung her long hair dry and put on the kettle for tea. In the study she opened the books she didn’t write; then sat at the desk, lifted a quill, and, in a patient script, wrote nothing down. It was the late sixteenth century. Men brawled in taverns for laurel crowns. And what did she have to say? She was sure that she knew. There were too many words already and none of them hers. Shakespeare’s sister scratched her name into the wall with a butter knife. As she paced the floor alone, her thoughts were like starlings at the edge of a winter field, hunting for grass seed. And when she spoke, the sound was like wind tangled in rich curtains, an echo muffled by blank walls, while, in the next room, the kettle on the stove began to sing.